


Unconventional Wooing Techniques

by ecaitlin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecaitlin/pseuds/ecaitlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Target is not the ideal place to pick up dates, but Courfeyrac makes it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconventional Wooing Techniques

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://couferre.tumblr.com/post/84583338636/k-elizabeth-t-this-boy-at-target-asked-if-i) tumblr text posts that says: "This boy at Target asked if I would hold his hand because his ex girlfriend just walked in with a new guy, so naturally I felt bad and held his hand while strolling around Target for a bit. Then it dawned on me, with no other couple in sight, that was the best damn pick up line ever pulled."

Eggs

Chips (any kind but  _ **NOT**_  salt and vinegar)

Q-tips

Super glue

Socks (white)

Salsa

Combeferre sighs to himself, looking down at the creased list in his hand. There are perks to living with your best friend, sometimes, like they're less likely to get irritated if you steal their milk, they'll kindly ask you to turn your music down instead of passive-aggressively blaring their own to get back at you, and sometimes the two of you can curl up on the sofa in ratty clothes and marathon the Lord of the Rings movies without either of you having to worry about being judged for not taking a shower that day.

There are also downsides to living with your best friend, especially if that best friend is Enjolras. And one of those downsides, Combeferre has learned in the two years they've shared a small apartment together, involves countless trips to Target at random times (sometimes ridiculously late at night) to get an odd assortment of things that Enjolras himself is too busy to buy.

That is why Combeferre is standing just inside the Target doors at eight in the evening on a Thursday when he has better things to do, like read, or study, or anything, really, that doesn't involve Target. Only Enjolras has a big test coming up in two days and has locked himself up in his room, for the most part, and if Combeferre doesn't shop for him then his shopping will never get done. (Combeferre resigned himself to this fact a long time ago. Enjolras is fully capable of shopping for himself, he just  _won't_. Not unless he absolutely has to, and Combeferre is a terrible enabler.)

"Hey," someone says, and Combeferre startles, looking up from where he'd been frowning down at the word  _salsa_ (does Enjolras really  _need_  salsa?), to find a boy – man? – grinning up at him as if they're long lost friends that have just been reacquainted after years apart.

"Hello," Combeferre says slowly.

"Courfeyrac," the guy says, sticking out his hand.

Combeferre frowns at it for a long moment, as if he has no idea what he's supposed to do with it, but then he shakes his head and takes the hand. "Combeferre," he says, carefully pronouncing it.

"Combeferre," the guy says, his grin turning into a smirk. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," Combeferre says, because it's the polite thing to do, even when meeting strangers while reading over a shopping list just inside the Target doors. Also because it is, in a way. Nice, that is. It isn't often that Combeferre meets attractive men while buying salsa for his roommate.

"Is it?" Courfeyrac asks, tilting his head to the side. It's such an odd question, and the way he asks it leaves Combeferre a little dumbfounded and a lot speechless. "Here's the thing, Combeferre," Courfeyrac continues before he can speak. "My ex just walked in here, right? Did you see them? Tall, blond hair— never mind, it doesn't matter. But, see, the thing is that they dumped  _me_ , you know? I've never been dumped before. Do I look like the type of guy who gets dumped?"

"Um, no?"

"Exactly!" Courfeyrac gives his hand a squeeze to emphasis the words, and Combeferre realizes that he hasn't released it yet and hastily does so. "So here I am, still dealing with the emotional trauma that comes from being dumped, something I am completely unaccustomed to dealing with, when my ex walks in holding hands with their new boyfriend. Doesn't that suck?"

"That does sound rather… unfortunate," Combeferre says warily. "But I don't see what that—"

"And to make it worse I look completely pathetic, too, because I'm all alone," Courfeyrac adds, cutting him off, "weeks after the break up, still haven't moved on, and there they are with a new guy while I'm buying tissues at eight at night on a Thursday to dry my heartbroken tears. "

"I'm sorry," Combeferre says, genuinely. Breaks ups can be very difficult, not that he has much experience with them. Or any, really, but he's read enough books and watched enough movies to know that they must be very emotionally trying. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I'm so glad you asked!" Courfeyrac says brightly, bouncing a bit on the heels of his feet. He's very energetic, like a ball of energy. If it weren't for the sunny smile on his face, Combeferre might have politely excused himself as soon as he said hello. As it is, he stays rooted to the spot. "Do you think you could, like, maybe pretend to be my new partner?"

"Partner?"

"Significant other," Combeferre says, waving his hand. "Whatever you want to call it."

"You want me to pretend to be your new boyfriend," Combeferre elaborates.

"Boyfriend," Courfeyrac says, as if testing the word on his tongue. "Cool, yeah. I don't like to make assumptions about gender identity so I went with something neutral, but boyfriend works. Will you pretend to be my boyfriend, just for a little bit? Like, maybe hold my hand, walk around the store with me until they see us? Just to make them think I've totally moved on and I'm not completely emotionally devastated. Which I am, by the way. So devastated."

Oh, he certainly looks it, lips pulled up in that sunny smile, dark eyes crinkling at the sides from the force of his grin.

"I," Combeferre starts, prepared to gently let Courfeyrac down, but the words won't come out. Instead, what does come out of his mouth is: "I suppose so."

Somehow that smile gets impossibly bigger, and Courfeyrac's fingers easily fit their way between his own. Combeferre glances down at them, at the smooth, dark skin of Courfeyrac's hand contrasting with Combeferre's own paler skin tone, and finds his lips twitching. Is this truly happening? Things like this do not happen to people like Combeferre. Actually, things like this probably don't happen to  _anyone_.

"What are we buying?" Courfeyrac asks, gently pulling him away from the doors.

"Um." Combeferre consults his list again, finding it difficult to sort out his thoughts with the way Courfeyrac's thumb is distractedly rubbing circles against the back of his hand. "Socks first. The clothing section is closest to us."

As soon as Combeferre finishes speaking, Courfeyrac carts him off towards the clothes, grinning at every person they pass. It's surprisingly busy, for this time of night, but Combeferre keeps an eye out for – what did Courfeyrac say his ex looks like? Blond and tall? – other couples as they go, only spotting a few elderly ones holding hands or bickering over whether or not they need two containers of vanilla yoghurt.

When they find the socks, Combeferre grabs a generic twenty pack and tucks them under his arm, realizing a beat too late that he should have grabbed a basket.

"What's next on your list?" Courfeyrac asks him, sounding prepared to let Combeferre tug him along wherever he wants to go without complaint.

"Q-tips," Combeferre says, "or super glue. I'm not sure where either of those are."

"What is on that list?" Courfeyrac asks, snatching it from him. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks as he quickly reads it over, letting out a quiet chuckle before he hands it back to Combeferre. "That is quite the eccentric assortment of items, you know."

"It's not for me," Combeferre says quickly, lest Courfeyrac think he's weird. But then, who's the one asking strangers to pretend to be their boyfriend in order to not look pathetic after a break up? "It's my roommate. He doesn't shop for himself. He  _can_ , he just… doesn't."

"Sweet of you to do it for him," Courfeyrac says, pulling him along. "Glue's this way, then we'll stop in the food department to get the rest, and we'll get the Q-tips on our way to the cash."

"Okay," Combeferre says, because he doesn't really see any reason to argue.

As they walk, Combeferre can feel his hand getting sweaty and wonders if Courfeyrac notices. If he does, he doesn't mention it, so Combeferre gives his hand a squeeze, just to see, and Courfeyrac gives him a look out the sides of his eyes, sly and surprisingly bashful for someone who seems to completely comfortable with himself.

Combeferre has to very pointedly remind himself that there is a reason that this stranger – attractive, charming, hyper-active stranger – is holding his hand, and it has little to do with Combeferre himself. "Have we passed your ex yet?" he forces himself to ask, looking around as Courfeyrac pulls him down random aisles, making Combeferre question whether or not he actually knows where he's going.

"No," Courfeyrac answers cheerfully. "I'm sure we will eventually. Better keep holding my hand, though, just in case."

Combeferre doubts he's going to want to let go any time soon. Their fingers fit nicely together, and there's something almost comfortable about the warmth of their palms pressed together that he's a bit reluctant to give up just yet.

When they find the glue Courfeyrac carries it for him, and when they get to the food department he also holds the chips and the salsa, but Combeferre carefully takes the eggs before he can. He has a feeling that Courfeyrac is not a person who should be trusted with something as breakable as eggs. He's a little too energetic, there's a bit too much bounce in his step for Combeferre to want to risk it.

"Almost done," Courfeyrac says, pulling him towards the bath and body section of the store.

"What about you?" Combeferre asks. "What do you have to get?"

"Shaving cream," Courfeyrac says, pulling a bottle off the shelf as he speaks. "And toothpaste, but that's in the next aisle."

By the time they make it to the cash registers, getting into line behind a woman with two children trying to persuade her into buying them one of the candy bars lining the shelf next to them, their arms are ladened down with their thing, though their hands are still clasped tightly together, and Combeferre makes a mental note not to forget the basket next time.

"Did we even pass your ex?" Combeferre asks, giving the room around them a quick, sweeping look. He doesn't see any couples; not any around their age, where one party has blond hair, anyway.

"Nope," Courfeyrac says, sounding unperturbed. "Maybe they left."

He sounds so flippant and uncaring that Combeferre frowns at him, then down at where their hands are still joined together, and asks, "Your ex isn't actually here, are they?"

"What makes you say that?" Courfeyrac dumps his things onto the conveyor belt, and Combeferre's just behind him.

"We haven't seen anyone that fits your description," Combeferre says, "and you don't seem very concerned about that, either." Courfeyrac just shrugs and pulls out a credit card. "Do you even  _have_  an ex?"

"Sure do," Courfeyrac says. "Just not, you know, any  _recent_  exes. Definitely none that I'm still getting over. And not one of them is blond."

Combeferre gapes at him, completely baffled, and Courfeyrac finally releases his hand. "Are these all together?" the woman serving them asks, already ringing through Courfeyrac's toothpaste.

"No," Courfeyrac says. "Just those two for me. I'd pay for his, too, but I plan on asking him out in a minute and if I pay for his things he might feel forced into it, and I'd rather he agree to go out with me because I'm gorgeous and charming and not because he feels like he has to."

The woman at the register blinks at him, slowly, and Combeferre is a little grateful that he isn't the only one who has no idea what to do with Courfeyrac's loquaciousness. "That'll be four fifty," she says after a moment.

Combeferre isn't sure which of them is more stunned. The woman is ringing his things through and bagging them before he comes to his senses, and it takes her repeating, "That'll be twenty-four ninety-eight," three times before he shakes his head and pulls out the money Enjolras gave him.

Courfeyrac is waiting for him as he takes his bags, still smiling (did he ever stop?) only now his smile is a little uncertain. The longer Combeferre looks at him the smaller it gets, until finally he coughs awkwardly, pushing a hand through dark, curly hair, and asks, "Too forward? My friends tell me I'm way too forward all the time."

"I have no idea what just happened," Combeferre tells him.

"You just spent twenty minutes walking around Target holding my hand," Courfeyrac explains, as if Combeferre has somehow forgotten.

"Yes, I got that part," Combeferre says. "I'm just not sure why, exactly."

Courfeyrac shrugs at him. "I saw you standing there just inside the doors and thought, wow, that person is totally gorgeous. Only you can't really go up to strangers you meet at Target and just ask them for their number, can you? That wouldn't have worked." He pauses. "Right? That wouldn't have worked?"

"It might have," Combeferre admits.

"Oh." Courfeyrac frowns, but only for a moment. "But the 'help me make my ex jealous by holding my hand' thing worked too, right?"

Combeferre bites the inside of his cheek consideringly before saying, "It might have."

"So is that a yes to the second date?" He looks so hopeful as he asks that Combeferre nearly says yes right away.

"How about," Combeferre says, shifting his bags to one arm so he can pull out his phone, "you give me your number, and I take a day or two to decide whether or not this was too weird to consider doing it again?"

Courfeyrac quickly rattles off his number and spells his name out for Combeferre as he enters the contact into his phone, and then they both shuffle to the side to let another customer pass and Combeferre takes that opportunity to head for the doors, Courfeyrac following behind him.

"I hope you like Italian food," Courfeyrac says when they get outside. "There's this place around the corner from where I live. It's totally great."

"I haven't even agreed to the date yet," Combeferre reminds him.

Backing away, heading in the opposite direction that Combeferre has to go to get to his car, Courfeyrac says, as if he hadn't heard Combeferre at all, "It was nice meeting you, Combeferre. Don't call too late, okay? I have early classes."

"How do you know I'm going to call?"

Courfeyrac doesn't answer. He just winks – how does such a ridiculous person actually exist? – and turns around, heading for the horde of cars on the other side of the parking lot. Combeferre watches him go, shaking his head almost fondly, and then realizes what he's doing and hurries to find his own car.

Enjolras is waiting for him when he gets home, curled up on their sofa with his laptop balanced on his knees and a textbook open beside him.

"Did you get the salsa?" he asks without looking up.

"I did," Combeferre confirms, heading for the kitchen.

"What took you so long?"

"Traffic," Combeferre finds himself saying before he's even decided to lie. He isn't sure why, but he thinks that Enjolras might not approve of Courfeyrac's unconventional wooing techniques. And then he fumbles, nearly dropping the salsa as he puts it away, and wonders why he cares about Enjolras' approval when he hasn't even decided if he's ever going to see Courfeyrac again.

Unless he has.

Sighing, Combeferre pulls out his phone, opens the new contact, and before he can stop himself he sends,  _I prefer texting to calling._

The reply is almost instant. _So where DO you stand with Italian food?_  Courfeyrac's text reads, and there's a smiley face at the very end. Combeferre is not even a little surprised.


End file.
